“No one,” Franks said. “No one everasked for anything like that, except for him. If someone ever did want a tattoolike that, they didn’t say it out loud. And I design all my tattoos, so I wouldremember if someone requested a certain number of elements. I always madedesigns freehand from their vague ideas. It wasn’t precise like that. I wouldhave remembered easily.”
Zoe’s hand dropped, the pen wiltingbetween her fingers until it fell onto the page. “No one at all?”
“That’s what I said.” Franks stared backand forth between Zoe and Shelley with growing concern. “Wait, does that mean I’mnot off the hook?”
“Not yet, at least.” Shelley pushed herchair back, already ready to get up and leave. “That was short, but sweet.”
“Wait.” Something was happening in Zoe’smind, some kind of connection, and she need to give it a moment to germinate.Something about what Shelley had said—people changing their minds… “Does anyoneever come in to talk about getting a tattoo, but then change their mindswithout making the booking?”
Franks shrugged. “Of course. All thetime. I don’t charge for consultations, so people come in to talk about theirideas. A lot of the time they just chicken out. Or maybe they decide they don’tlike my art and go somewhere else. It’s cool either way. Just part of thebusiness.”
Zoe looked at Shelley. Shelley lookedback at her.
“Naomi Karling did not even have hertattoo yet, and she was considered a viable target,” Zoe said.
Recognition sparked in Shelley’s eyes. “Justa discussion about the tattoo would be enough,” she said.
Shelley was right. The killer, whoeverhe was, did not go just by the appointment book. He clearly wasn’t checkingback on it on any kind of a regular basis, because he hadn’t seen thecorrection that had appeared on Callie Everard’s page. That meant he must nothave seen it for a whole week, at least, and had not needed to flip back at allsince then.
It would explain, too, why he wasinterested in John Dowling, despite there being such a long distance of timebetween his first tattoo and his death. If he came in to get the tiger, talkedabout the serial number and what it represented openly, the killer could haveoverheard.
If someone had come in to talk aboutgetting a memorial tattoo, and then changed their minds later, the killer mightnot know. He might not realize that they weren’t going to get the ink done.They would be a target, all the same.
“Do you remember anyone coming in duringthe last few weeks—or months—who asked about one of these tattoos?” Zoe asked. “Someonewho did not make a booking?”
“Oh, yeah.” Franks nodded. “We get themall the time. People walk in off the street, normally because they saw my workin an article online or on social media. They get shared a lot.”
“We need their names,” Zoe said,grabbing her pen up again.
Franks’s mouth screwed up into a twistedknot. “I’m sorry,” he said, spreading his hands wide, stopping the gesture whenhe met the limit of his chains. “I don’t take down details during theconsultation. I mean, I might jot some ideas down on a bit of scrap paper justin case they do book in, but sooner or later it gets thrown away. Otherwise I’dhave mountains of records, you know?”
Zoe’s pen hit the table for the secondtime in a very short span. Frustration roiled through her. “Then we have no wayof finding them,” she said, feeling despair.
“Yes, we do,” Shelley said, getting upand heading for the door. “Come on. We’re going to do this the old-fashionedway.”
“What about my client?” Smith called afterthem, his words completely ignored as Zoe swept after her partner as quickly asher feet would take her.
***
“What are we looking at?” Zoe asked,watching over Shelley’s shoulder as she opened up an internet browser.
“Any local publication,” Shelley said. “Findtheir website, and then the obituaries section. We can check them all one byone, together. Go back over the last six months, maybe.”
“Obituaries?”
Shelley looked at Zoe. “Do you know whatthe number one reason is for someone getting a memorial tattoo?”
Zoe thought the answer was obvious. “Toremember someone.”
“Right. And why remember someone whenthey’re still alive?”
“So you think the most likely reason forsomeone to have been seeking a tattoo, but not to book one, is because theywere reacting to the death of an elderly relative?”
Shelly nodded, her eyes fixed on herscreen as she clicked through multiple pages. “And the obvious reason fordeciding not to get it after all. The first flush of grief, followed by a flashof realism. The desire to avoid pain, or a realization that they don’t wantthis mark on their bodies for the rest of their lives. Grief starts to fade andyou realize that you won’t feel the same way forever.”
Zoe thought she understood. She wasalready sitting in front of the second computer monitor in the room, typingaway at her own search. “Los Angeles Daily,” she said.
“I’m on the LA Star,” Shelleyreplied. “Shout if you find something.”
They searched frantically through thereports. Zoe felt an itching feeling on her skin as she looked over lists uponlists of dead people. Those who had passed away with their lives summarizedinto one neat little box, paid for by the word, some of them abbreviated to analmost inhumane level. Others waxing lyrical with sentiments which onlydescribed the grief of their children, not the person who was gone.
She couldn’t help but wonder whatsomeone would write about her own life. Notwithstanding the obvious truth thatno one would; maybe only the FBI themselves, and then in the form of a pressrelease. She would probably be a news story, not an obituary. Somehow, Zoe didn’tsee herself dying old and surrounded by loved ones. More like on the job.
And even if she made it to the end of along life, what would be written about her? Would she have loved ones left towrite it? Would it talk about her life, her personality, or just her career?
If she died tomorrow?
John was lovely, but he didn’t know herwell enough, not yet. Their relationship was in its early stages, and eventhough she was
